


What I Want Now

by whatsun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:16:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsun/pseuds/whatsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been living together for almost two years now. John makes an admission. It doesn't go down all that well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Admission

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fanfic. Ever. So be nice, but if I really screw it up, please let me know. 
> 
> Sorry in advance for any typos/plot holes/bad character. I know its not flowing particularly well, but hopefully it should get better as I write more.  
> And yeah, I say trousers instead of pants. And pants instead of underpants. Sorry.
> 
> Oh yeah, and its super short, so sorry about that. 
> 
> Wow, lots of apologies today. :/
> 
> Thanks for reading! (The notes at least...)

They had been living together for almost two years now. It was nice, John decided, to have a flatmate, even if he was a self-declared sociopath who left body parts in the fridge and acid in the microwave. It made a change from being alone after the army. Not that John minded being alone; he rarely was with Sherlock and his tendency to invade personal spaces, such as John's bedroom, or the bathroom whilst John was mid-shower. But it was fine, because Sherlock very rarely even glanced at him. At least, John thought it was fine, even if he was a little offended that Sherlock didn't care about the fact that he was naked, barely three feet away from him, muscles still defined from time spent in the army, even if they were a little less obvious. But then, Sherlock didn't think about that sort of thing, something he had made perfectly clear a numerous amount of times. 

All of this meant that John had no intention of falling for Sherlock. It hadn't even occurred to him, until Sherlock had misunderstood his intentions at Angelo's. Afterwards though, once Lestrade and the team had finished the 'drugs bust' and Sherlock had almost gotten himself killed at Roland Kerr Further Education College, John's mind had drifted to other, rather distracting thoughts. Like the way Sherlock's body moved. Or the damnable tight trousers. Or how his curls would feel if John were to run his hand through them.  

And these thoughts whirled around in John's head almost non-stop. He dated women, knowing that it wouldn't last, just to drag his mind away from his disturbingly asexual flatmate. It didn't work. Women hated competing with Sherlock Holmes, and John couldn't blame them; Sherlock was the most important thing in his life. Simple as that. Despite this, it took John a long time to identify and label his feelings. He was sure Sherlock would see, would know with one sideways glance how he felt, and immediately cut him out of his life. But he never did, so John simply thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock was completely unaware of emotions, except when using them to his advantage. It was when Irene Adler failed to hide her attraction well enough that John panicked. If Irene, who was, as Sherlock said, 'rather good', how did he stand a chance of avoiding the same, crushing dismissal. But weeks went past, and Sherlock remained unaware. Or at least he didn't say anything.

*

It was a particularly cold December evening when John returned to the flat, burdened with the weeks shopping, hoping Sherlock had moved the goddamn head out of the top shelf; he didn't really feel like being watched by it's glassy stare as he unpacked the shopping. As John walked into the flat however, the first thing he noticed was Sherlock, lying on the floor, shirtless. John paused, unsure whether he should be concerned, or just enjoy the view. When Sherlock sighed dramatically, John decided he probably shouldn't be staring, and quickly moved into the kitchen. Dumping the bags on the floor, he opened the fridge and let out an involuntary squeak. The head was no longer on the top shelf. It was on the second, directly in John's eye level. Spinning around to yell at Sherlock, he jumped again. Sherlock was stood less than a foot away from him, his toned torso on display, head cocked to the side, watching. 

"Um, Sherlock," John started, "I thought I told you to -"

John's angry rant was cut short as Sherlock grabbed his face with both hands, tilted his head back, and kissed him. John froze for a second, mind reeling, totally confused as to what was happening. But as Sherlock soon pulled back to gauge his reaction, John stepped forward and crushed his lips to his. Now it was Sherlock's turn to tense. John shifted slightly, and ran his tongue over Sherlock's lower lip. Sherlock hesitated for a movement, before he tentatively parted his lips, allowing John's tongue to caress the inside of his mouth. John's hand moved up Sherlock's back and neck, gently cupping his head. Sherlock's bare skin felt hot to the tough as John's other hand moved around his angular hips. Sherlock's hands found John's waist. He gasped into the kiss as John softly nipped his lip. The longer the kiss went on, the more confident Sherlock seemed to get, copying Johns actions.  John moaned quietly, before pulling back to look at him. Sherlock looked, well, nervous. John had never seen the detective looking out of his element before. His normally sharp eyes were wide, his hair scruffy. As John looked at him, Sherlock shifted awkwardly on his feet.

"John, I... uh..I probably owe you a bit of an explanation for that." Sherlock was refusing to look at John now, suddenly fascinated with his own left foot. John frowned. He didn't think he had ever heard Sherlock use any sort of filler sounds, but now he was stumbling over his words, looking incredibly awkward and out of place."I realize that, erm,  you will most likely not have, um, enjoyed that, due to your attraction to women but, I, um.. Well I think I should apologize and I suggest we simply forget about-"

"Sorry, what?" John cut in. Sherlock simply looked up at him, confused. John waited for him to explain, but he didn't, so John kept talking. "You think I didn't enjoy that?"

"Well, as you keep pointing out you are most definitely  **not gay** so why on earth would that have been an enjoyable experience for you?"

John blinked at him. Sherlock turned to go back into the hallway, giving John a view of his, rather nice, behind, and a long scar that ran almost the entire length of his back. "And what if I decide that I did, in fact, enjoy that?" John asked. Sherlock paused. 

"I think maybe we should talk about this?" It was a question, not a statement, and John felt as if he had been thrown into some bizarre alternate universe in which Sherlock was not Sherlock and he, John, was in fact the one who made others run for cover and stand looking at their feet as he made them feel incompetent. Sherlock looked at him, clearly completely unaware of how to react or what exactly was happening. His head tilted, and eyes narrowed as he practically glared at John. What he saw, John did not know. He wondered if he looked as smug as he felt; it wasn't often anyone saw Sherlock looking completely lost.

"Oh, really? I'd say we better repeat the experiment. Much more accurate results."

"I seriously doubt you would be up for that," a smirk threatened to form on Sherlock's face, "considering that for any result to be statistically significant and therefore valid it would need to have a sample size of around 10% of the-" John shut him up with a kiss. He should have know better than to turn it into something science-related. Now Sherlock was in his element, and would probably claim it was an experiment. But John had seen the look on his face. He knew. Sherlock felt the same way. John didn't care that he would probably never have a normal relationship with Sherlock, if any, but for now, this was good.

*

It was a while later that they lay on the sofa, John now also without anything on his top half, just kissing. Some chaste, some not so much. And it was good. It was what John had wanted for a long time. Or it was pretty close to what he'd wanted. If he tried anything else tonight Sherlock would probably spook and never want to kiss him again. It was as the intensity began to die down, and Sherlock curled up against John that he felt the need to say it. Just to let him know, to make sure he understood what this meant. If he wanted to stop this then that was fine. Well, it wasn't, but John was pretty confident he wouldn't, after all he had started it. And his pupils were dilated just as much as John's. 

Sherlock stood and stretched, looking down at John fondly. "Tea?"

"I'd love some"

John watched Sherlock sashay into the kitchen and pull out two mugs. John's favorite, light blue one and his own, deep red one. As he watched Sherlock make the tea (using a busen burner, no less, because 'John it's much quicker this way') and adding two sugars into his own, he couldn't not say it anymore. Turning to flick the TV on, keeping it casual, not wanting to freak him out too much, John went for it.

"I love you." 

Sherlock froze. He turned, slowly, to look at John. His eyes were huge, wide and afraid. But John wasn't looking. He didn't see the color leave Sherlock's face or see the step he took backwards, into the counter. John only turned at the sound of the mugs being swept onto the floor by a terrified looking consulting detective.

" _WHAT?"_ Sherlock spat. John frowned.

"What's wrong? Look, I get that it's probably a bit soon to go around telling you I love you, but I think I've known it long enough and I'm pretty sure you must have noticed it as well." Sherlock still hadn't move, so John pressed on. "Ever since you first decided to almost kill yourself taking that bloody stupid pill I knew I would do anything for you and it's taken me this long to figure out that I simply don't feel this way about the rest of my friends so whether you like it or not," John was practically growling, angered by Sherlock's continual lack of response, "I love you." 

When Sherlock still didn't move John went to him, side-stepping the broken ceramic on the floor and reaching for Sherlock's arm.

" ** _NO_.** "

Sherlock jerked his arm backwards so violently that his whole body moved. Before John could even react he was gone, spinning on his heels and running out the door. The front door slammed. John simply stood there. What the actual hell? Why would he react like that?

It must be because he knows he feels the same, John reasoned, he thinks it's too much of a disadvantage, that he'll 'lose' if he lets himself feel. He'll understand. Even if he doesn't, John will accept that and move on. Although he'd still rather continue the friendship. Life was more that a little boring with a certain Sherlock Holmes causing trouble.

He'll come back. He'll find his way home. He always does,John thought.

*

A week later he was still telling himself the same thing.  No-one knew where he was. He'd even managed to escape his brother, and now the government was panicking. Lestrade was on the lookout, Mycroft was continually checking god knows how many CCTV cameras for any sign of his younger brother, but there was nothing. Lestrade had even gone as far as searching every known drug den in London, a last ditch attempt which turned up nothing. It seemed Sherlock was very good at not being found. Either that or- No. John would not think of the alternative. But from a medical point of view, John knew that without a warm coat, or shoes or even a shirt, hypothermia was likely. Unless he had found somewhere warm. John hoped he had. 

_He'll come back. He'll come back. He'll come back. He'll come back. He'll come back._

_He'll find his way home. He'll find his way home._

_He will._

 

 


	2. He'll Find His Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is still missing. John needs a distraction.

Three weeks later, Sherlock was still missing. How one manages to avoid the British government while he's looking for you, John had no idea. But this was Sherlock. And if Sherlock did not want to be found, then Sherlock would not be found. John did his best to distract himself, throwing himself into work at the clinic, working overtime, anything that took his mind of his last, disastrous conversation with a certain flatmate. It wasn't really a long term solution, nor did it remove the feeling if guilt that named at him constantly, but it made it easier to carry on as normal.

Now Lestrade had gotten into the habit of asking John to come along to crime scenes, thinking he was some sort of replacement, knowing that in trying to mimic Sherlock, he forgot, if only for a little while.

It was on one of these cases that John felt as if he were being watched. It was the same feeling het to whenever Sherlock had asked for John's opinion on a body. It was unnerving, to say the least. John looked up from where he was kneeling over the body of a young man, to look around. The alley was dark, unsettling, but then most back alleys are. There were policemen milling around and John could hear Donovan whinging about something. Anderson was sulking, not even allowed to touch the body before John had finished, and Lestrade was leaning against the wall, observing John's precise actions. Well, seeing them at least.

"You alright there, John?" Lestrade asked.

"What? Yeah, fine," he replied absently.

Glancing back down at the body, John stood. "As far as I can tell, the bullet wound on the back of his head didn't kill him. Nowhere near enough bleeding. So, that would mean he was dead before he got here. Probably. There's no sign of a struggle or trauma on any limbs or his head. Slight abrasion on the backs of his legs, probably from where he was dragged into the alley, but I can't tell you the cause of death." It was pitiful, compared to Sherlock's deductions, but John couldn't do any more.

Lestrade nodded; he understood. Without Sherlock cases were hard. Frustratingly so. He turned back to the rest of the team, finally giving Anderson permission to look at the body and take samples for analysis. John watched for a moment, before turning his back to the street, looking deeper into the alley. The waning light of the evening sun didn't reach far enough back for him to see properly. So naturally he began to walk. Still feeling as if he were being watched, John stopped again, glancing back. Noone seemed to notice he was gone. Police officers had now swarmed the body, and Lestrade was busy trying to co-ordinate them all, so John continued on. He couldn't see very well anymore, the light was dingy and it smelt rather strongly of urine. But John was unfazed. After all, he was a doctor.

The sound of a foot being scuffed of the floor made John turn. He had reached a junction in the alleyway and was faced with a choice: left or right. On the right, there were large, industrial size bins, from the back of a kebab shop. Looking down the left, John could see a figure walking alone. Well, perhaps walking wasn't the word; it was more of a shuffle. The figure shuffled hurriedly along, stumbling repeatedly. John watched for a moment, before following, allowing himself to be drawn deeper into the backalleys of London.

*

It wasn’t long before the figure stopped, and turned. John ducked quickly behind some discarded rubbish, wrinkling his nose at the stench. When the noise resumed, John stood again and looked about. The figure was gone. Frowning, he walked onwards, wondering where he could have gone. It was so well hidden that John almost missed it. A door, covered with what looked like years worth of dirt and mud caked over it, was embedded into the wall. It looked thoroughly rotten. John cautiously poked it with the toe of his boot. It creaked. Peeking over his shoulder to check that noone was around, John grasped the piece of string that seemed to serve as a handle and tugged gently. It swung open without a sound.

Stepping inside, John instinctively recoiled, the smell assaulting his nose.  Looking around, he tried not to retch. There were bodies lying about, some moaning quietly, others eerily quiet. There was a dripping noise somewhere from within, and the whole place stank of mould and human defecation. Breathing through his mouth, John stepped further inside. Watching where he was putting his feet (lest he step in what looked like sludge and smelt like poo), John began to observe.

The bodies that lay around were thin, and lying on even thinner mattresses. Sunken eyes peered blearily at him through crusted lashes, as they tapped out veins in their arms. John exhaled heavily. As a doctor he had seen the effects of drugs firsthand, but never before had he seen the process by which people obtained their fix. Just as the panic rose up in him, John heard a now familiar shuffle. Moving towards the sound, the figure came into view. As he lay down in the corner of the den, facing the wall, John was able to look at him. He was skinny, alarmingly so, a fact that would have been cover by his baggy tracksuit and hoodie, if the former hadn’t been slipping off his hips. As John looked he pushed himself up to sitting again, and pull a small black box out from under the mattress. Sleek and beautifully carved, it must have been some sort of family heirloom, gone to waste. As John thought how uncomfortable it must have been to lay on, the man pulled out a syringe; already half full, and pressed the plunger down a further half of the remainder. As the man nestled back down into his mattress, he pulled back the hood of his hoodie. John’s heart dropped through the floor. Matted black curls, a long, pale neck. Sherlock.

*

John didn’t know how long he stood there, watching Sherlock’s shallow, rapid breathing before he came to his senses. Pulling out his phone, he grimaced. Out of signal. So he guessed Mycroft would have to wait for the news; John couldn’t leave him. Not like this.

*

It was a full three hours before Sherlock stirred again, groaning quietly. Without even opening his eyes, he reached an arm out for the box. John beat him to it, grabbing it and pulling it back, out of his reach. Sherlock simply blinked lethargically at the spot where the box had been. Seeing him like this was terrifying. Unaware of John, Sherlock simply sighed and opened his eyes fully. And promptly froze, his eyes locked with John’s.

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity before Sherlock suddenly jumped back, covering his face with his hands and bringing his knees up to his chest. He began to rock hurriedly, murmuring to himself. John shuffled closer.

“Sherlock?”

What followed sounded like a strangles moan, escaping the detective’s lips with a shudder. John paused, unsure of what to do, but leaning closer, trying to decipher what he was saying.

“ _Nononononono…”_

John pulled back, confused.

“Sherlock?” he tried again.

“ ** _GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_** ” was the screamed response. It echoed off the walls, amplified, causing several bodies to shuffle against their mattresses, pulling their clothes tightly around them. For the first time, John heard fear in the deep baritone voice of his friend.

“Sherlock, Sherlock listen. I’m not in your head, I’m here.”

This simply got a moan. John sighed and settled on a different approach, moving so that he was crouched down in front of the detective, watching as his curly hair moved with each rocking motion. John reached out a hand to touch Sherlock’s arm. He froze, before hesitantly looking up at John.

“John?” it was a whisper, barely audible, but John nodded.

“It’s me. I’m here,” he soothed the detective, who had resumed rocking. Sherlock stopped long enough to wrap his long limbs around John’s body. John simply held him, unsure what was expected of him.  For now though, this seemed to be enough.

*

Neither man was sure how long they sat there, Sherlock safe in the circle of John’s arms, before John spoke again.

“Hallucinations?”

Sherlock nodded against him.

“I kept imagining you were here. I kept seeing you. I couldn’t-“ Sherlock broke off, heaving a sigh.

“It’s okay now, Sherlock, it’s okay.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “I want to go home John.”

John nodded, “okay, okay. Come on then.” He heaved Sherlock to his feet. He wobbled only slightly before righting himself. He allowed John to lead him as far as the door, before grabbing his arm and tugging him a different way to the way that John had come.

“Can’t let Mycroft see,” Sherlock whispered. John wasn’t sure why he was whispering but he nodded anyway. Although Mycroft would have to have to know eventually, he figured it could wait just a little longer, just so long as Sherlock was safe.

*

Taking the back streets, it took them only 10 minutes to get back to Baker Street. John immediately bundled Sherlock upstairs, pushing him into the bathroom.

“Okay, Sherlock, have a shower, leave the clothes on the floor, they can go straight in the bin. I’m going to make tea and toast for you.” John moved to leave, “Oh, and don’t lock the door. If you aren’t out within 15 minutes, I’m coming in, regardless of whether or not you’re dressed. Okay?”

Sherlock just nodded.

*

John texted Mycroft:

**HE’S SAFE. HOME. DO NOT COME IN. – JW**

**WHERE WAS HE? HIGH I PRESUME? I WILLL BE UP SHORTLY – MH**

**I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU COME UP RIGHT NOW, I WILL DRAG YOU OUT BY YOUR WAISTCOAT. – JW**

**IF YOU SAY SO. I TRUST YOU ARE LOOKING AFTER HIM? –MH**

**OF COURSE. – JW**

**GOOD. I BELIEVE YOU. – MH**

*

With Sherlock fed and watered, John turned to let him sleep, knowing that it was probably best to let him sleep off the last of the drugs in his system.

“John?”

“Mmm? What’s wrong?”

“I.. .Nothing. I just- Nevermind.”

John frowned. “Sherlock, if there’s something wrong, then you really need to tell me. If something doesn’t feel right then I want to get you checked properly, yeah?”

“It’s not… Nothing’s wrong per say, I just…”

“Just what, Sherlock?”

“Can you maybe… Maybe sit with me?”

That wasn’t what John was expecting. He paused, looking down at Sherlock, who shifted awkwardly in bed.

“I mean, if you don’t want to then I- It’s fine, I don’t –“

“No, its okay, I’ll stay.” John sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. They sat in companionable silence for a while before Sherlock spoke again.

“I’m sorry.”

John blinked. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the man apologize before. He doubted it was something that he did very frequently.

“It’s okay now. Just… Promise me you won’t just disappear like that again. A day I can handle, a week maybe if I know where you are. Just don’t ever run off. Okay?”

“I- Okay.”

“Can I ask you something, Sherlock? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock stiffened. “You want to know why. I suppose I can’t blame you.”

He didn’t go on, so John waited. Eventually he continued.

“It’s complicated. There was… Something… When I was a boy…” Sherlock shuddered. John frowned.

“I’m sorry John, its just-“ His voiced choked in a sob.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” John soothed. As Sherlock began to calm down, John continued “C’mon, Sherlock. Tell me the secrets you’ve been keeping.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) (and kudos left on the last chapter)
> 
> Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors, I wrote this all in one, exhausting evening.
> 
> Please comment to let me know what you think :)
> 
> I'll hopefully have the next chapter up soon, and you'll find out why Sherlock ran off.


	3. The Secrets You've Been Keeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where you find out...  
> *dramatic music*

“C’mon, Sherlock. Tell me the secrets you’ve been keeping.”

Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath. John can barely see him in the dark, could only feel the dent in the mattress where he lay.

“When I – When I was younger, about twelve or thirteen, Mycroft had already finished university, he would have been twenty.”

Sherlock shifted, close enough that his curls brushed John’s leg. John placed a hand on his shoulder. It was strange, seeing Sherlock talk about this, about his childhood. It was worse to hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke. John didn’t know what had happened to make Sherlock feel like this, but he knew he wasn’t going to like it. Already he felt the overwhelming need to protect Sherlock, to make it okay.

“Mycroft and I, well… We used to be quite… close I suppose. When he went off to university, I think that was when we started growing apart. But I remember thinking that it was okay, I didn’t need him. We had a dog you see. Redbeard he was called. As a kid I loved him. I think he knew more about me than anyone, God knows I used to tell him things I never told anyone else.” There was a strange note in Sherlock’s voice that told John that whatever that dog had been to him, it was the really was closest thing to love he had ever felt.

“Anyway, well – You can imagine I was not the most agreeable child to grow up with,” John smirked at this; Sherlock now was bad enough, he could only imagine what he was like as a teenager.

“The boys at my school seemed to be of that opinion at the very least. They used to call me names. They were… inventive, shall we say. One day –on a Tuesday I believe – they decided they’d had enough of me.  As I left school they followed me home, beat me up in my own garden.” John gritted his teeth. He could just imagine a gangly, preteen Sherlock, just as brilliant, but undoubtedly just as clueless with social cues.

“They weren’t exactly trying to take me by surprise; they spent the whole walk taunting me, telling my they were going to ‘beat the shit out of me’. Not a particularly creative threat I’ll admit, but it was enough to scare me. I hoped if I could get inside before they caught up, they’d leave me alone. I was sure that no-one would notice if I simply skipped school. But they did catch me. One of them, Chris, his name was, grabbed my arm just as I tried to put the key in the lock, spun me around and punched me in the face. It didn’t take long before all the others joined in. They were all shoving me around, against the side of the house, kicking me, biting, what-have-you.”

John felt angry. Irrationally so. Lots of kids got bullied, in the same way as Sherlock, but the mental image of Sherlock, bruised and bloodied was enough to make John’s blood boil. Sherlock paused, and John realized that this was something he had never shared before. He could read it in the tension in his body, the way he drew his knees up to his chest and how his breathing had changed, his whole body ready to run, as if he were afraid.

“Well, I suppose when it comes down to it, Redbeard was the one who rescued me. Attacked them the same way they’d attacked me. It’s strange really that a group of boys who had just that second been ‘beating the shit’ out of me, were suddenly afraid of a dog. He wasn’t a big dog either, a red setter. I would have laughed, if it hadn’t hurt. As it was, I think I smirked. That probably didn’t help. It made them angry, so they kicked him. Which was a stupid thing to do. It only made it worse for them. It didn’t take much before they ran off, and Redbeard and I were just left there in the garden. I think that was when I realized that he was the only one who would ever stand up for me. Until you.” Sherlock shifted so that he was looking up at John. John could make out the pale eyes that looked up at him, assessing his reaction.

“I will always be there to stand up for you, Sherlock. Do you understand?”

Sherlock looked away again.

“They told their parents of course. He had to be put down.” It was simple and short, but Sherlock’s harsh tone gave him away. He cared, even if he loathed to admit it.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock.”

“Don’t be. It was expected.”

“Still… I am. But I still don’t understand why you left.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I did get a little off topic. Well, as a child I felt completely abandoned. The one person, or animal that I could rely on, had been taken away from me, simply because they had defended me. I suppose that’s when I started shutting people out. It’s probably when any relationships I’d had up until then had started falling apart. Two years passed, and nothing changed. My parents had given up trying to change me and left me alone. Mycroft-” Sherlock stopped and sighed. He sat up suddenly, before twisting to look at John. He hesitated for only a second before mimicking John’s position, propped up against the headboard and crossing his ankles. He cleared his throat before continuing.

“Two years later, Mycroft was still living at home, although he had already secured a position with the government by that stage. He used to go to a debate club, very proper, civil sort of meet, the kind that you probably need to have attended a school with higher bills each term than most salaries annually. Anyway, he made a few friends there, the sort of people you’d imagine the future government would make. To my knowledge he’s still in contact with a few of them. One of them was called Victor. Victor Trevor. Very proper, typical upper class Cambridge snob. Never had to work for anything in his life. But he used to come over all the time; Mummy was rather fond of him I think.” Sherlock shuffled closer to John, so close their arms were touching. John very deliberately didn’t pull away or lean towards the touch.

“One day he dropped unannounced, but no-one thought anything of it. Mummy let him in, probably assumed he was going to see Mycroft. He didn’t. He came to my room. I remember - ” Sherlock put his head on John’s shoulder, seeking comfort from the one person he knew would always be there for him.

“I remember that he sat down on the edge of my bed and very seriously - ” Sherlock turned and pressed his face into the side of John’s neck. John wrapped an arm around him, knowing he needed the comfort, as yet unsure to the reason why.

“He sat down and took my hands and looked my right in the eye and told me that he loved me.” The words were rushed, as if Sherlock desperately needed to let them out, which John supposed he did, after hiding God-knows-what for the past two decades.

“He said he’d been in love with me for a while, and that he’d been afraid to tell me. I… he didn’t show any of the physical signs of love. His pupils never once dilated, if anything his heart rate slowed. He confused me. He asked if I loved him and I told him no. He… he told me that he wanted to change my mind. I didn’t even have time to react before he’d pinned me to the bed. I don’t know how it happened, but then – then my face was in the pillow and it hurt.” Sherlock was openly sobbing now. “It hurt John, so much. And I couldn’t even scream because there was pillow in my mouth and I couldn’t see and - ” Tears fell freely down his face. John moved to hold Sherlock close to his chest, carefully keeping his breathing slow and deep. He had to stay strong right now. He could cry later, when Sherlock wasn’t so vulnerable. He began to rock gently, holding Sherlock to him. John felt like his heart had dropped through his feet. He felt angry, and empty, knowing that someone had done this to Sherlock, his Sherlock, had broken him like this.

“He may have looked soft but I can assure you he was anything but.” Sherlock’s voice wavered, but he had stopped sobbing openly. John didn’t stop rocking. He was probably rocking too fast to be soothing, but he couldn’t stop, had to hold Sherlock close to him, just for a moment. Sherlock seemed unaware of John’s inner turmoil.

“From what I know, after that he went downstairs and talked to Mycroft for a while before he left. I didn’t see him again after that, probably because Mycroft finally moved out.”

They sat in silence for a moment before something clicked in John’s head. He stopped rocking.  “Mycroft keeping seeing him even after… Even after he raped you?”

Sherlock went tense but didn’t say anything.

“Oh, God. He doesn’t know.”

Sherlock peeked up at John, frowning slightly. “You’re upset.”

John simply nodded tersely. Sherlock said nothing for a long moment.

“I don’t understand.” It was a rare admission, but what followed next broke John’s heart even more than Sherlock’s tenuous grasp on emotion. “Was it… Are you upset because it was my fault?” John just looked blankly at him. Sherlock began to talk in a rush, “I understand. You think I could I averted the situation by simply telling him I loved him? Maybe that would have worked. I suppose I could have - ”

“You were fifteen.” John’s voice was a growl.

“Well… yes. John I don’t - ”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty. Two years younger than Mycroft.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There was no point.” At the look on John’s face he continued, “They couldn’t have done anything to change it.”

John was silent for a second. “You told me.”

“You asked.”

John broke. Tears poured down his face and he gasped for breath as he imagined Sherlock alone, having been violated by someone. Someone his family trusted. And he dealt with this alone. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to soothe, wrapping his long arms around John and simply being.

“You have to tell him.”

“Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

“But… I don’t want to.”

John gently untangled himself from Sherlock’s arms and pulled back to look at him. “Sherlock, you can’t keep holding this stuff in. It’s not good for you.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen? What makes you think he’ll care?”

“He’s your brother. He worries about you. Constantly.”

Sherlock frowned minutely. “He does?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.”

It was quiet for a moment.  “You ran away because you thought I would do the same to you as Victor.”

“Yes.” Sherlock said it hesitantly, as if he were unwilling to admit it.

“Sherlock I swear to you, I would never, ever - ”

“I know.”

“Okay. Good.”

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“Can you… tell Mycroft?”

“No, but I’ll text him to ask him to come up.”

“Okay.”

John leaned over to pick up his phone off the floor and sent a single text:

**COME UP. SHERLCOK NEEDS TO TALK TO YOU. – JW**

**COMING. BRINGING GREGORY. – MH**

John frowned. Why would he bring Lestrade?

“Okay. He’s on his way. But he’s brining Lestrade. I’ll tell him to - ”

“No, it’s fine, just… You’ll stay, right?”

“Of course.”

And so John sat, with Sherlock’s face buried in his neck, and watched the British government fall apart.

 

 

 


	4. This Is What I Want Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen to Victor Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of the story. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

They stood, sat and lay in the dark for a long time, the only sound was breathing. John’s carefully controlled; an anchor for the tall, dark haired man who had made a pillow of his lap. Greg’s deep, angry breaths through his nose, you could practically hear his teeth gritting. Sherlock’s rapid, shallow breathing as he twisted his fingers into the material of John’s jeans. Mycroft breathing was similarly shallow, but every so often his breath caught of something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. It sounded as if he were having a panic attack, but he sat motionless in the semi-darkness. John’s hand was in Sherlock’s hair, twisting his fingers into the dark curls experimentally. Sherlock pushed his head into John’s hand, which John took to be a sign that he liked it.

Slowly, Sherlock began to calm, reassured by the movement of John’s hand in his hair. He was almost asleep when Mycroft spoke.

“I will make him pay.”

“He won’t be a free man much longer,” agreed Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed and reached across John to flick the light on. The four men blinked, eyes adjusting. Lestrade was lent against the wall, by the window, hands curled into fists, watching Sherlock carefully. He looked calm. Too calm. The type of calm right before a storm, as if the storm were trying to hide. That was most definitely the type of calm that Lestrade was; John could see the anger etched into his eye and his stance. Mycroft, by contrast, looked wrecked. He sat in the corner of the room, on the floor, hands over his face, shirt untucked and crumpled. It was unsettling, seeing the older Holmes like this. Sherlock seemed to agree, sitting up, and frowning at Mycroft.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, and promptly shut it again. Nothing he said now was going to change what he had just told them. He wished he hadn’t and looked at John, who was watching him with the type of concern normally reserved for a mother with her sick child. The regret and confusion on Sherlock’s face broke John’s heart.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling Sherlock against his chest in a hug, “it’s okay, you did the right thing, telling us.”

Sherlock sighed, a shuddering sigh which moved his, and John’s, entire body.

Mycroft looked up then, and looked at his baby brother, really looked. And, for the first time he really saw. For too long he’d been happy to let work absorb him completely, accustomed to Sherlock’s dismissive attitude, not stopping to think of the reason behind it. But now he remembered the tension and the fear as he’d told them, the way he clung to John, trusted him to make it okay. Sherlock had been afraid of his reaction, Mycroft realized with a jolt. He was afraid that Mycroft would side with Victor, blame Sherlock, or accuse him of making things up. Even now, as Sherlock buried his head in John’s jumper, he was tense.

Mycroft stood, and moved over to the bed. John watched him, not warning him off, just watching. Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Instead of shrugging him off as he would have done, he shifted to look at him. Mycroft paused, before offering himself for a hug. Sherlock hesitated only for a second, before allowing his big brother to comfort him for the first time since he was eleven.

“I can’t undo what he did, Sherlock, but I promise you, I will **_make him pay_**.”

Sherlock looked up at him in a way that could only be described as timid.

“Okay.” 

And with that Sherlock let his brother take over, in the first act of trust between them since they were children.  

*

Victor Trevor was not the sort of man John liked. Even if he hadn’t known what he’d done to Sherlock, John still wouldn’t have liked him. He was cocky, far too much so for anyone’s liking. But then, he’d never been called into a police station before, he knew Sherlock hadn’t told anyone. Because no-one had ever asked him. John’s heart twisted in his chest, and he looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was unusually quiet, sat at Donovan’s desk, looking at cold cases, silent, simply setting them aside after he solved them. It was unlike him, to be sat still for so long, but he’d refused to stay at home while John went to the Scotland Yard. As John watched, he glanced up, offering a small smile. John quickly glanced around; Victor wouldn’t be spoken to yet, Mycroft wasn’t even here yet, so John walked back over to Sherlock, leaning against the edge of the desk.

“So, how many have you solved?”

“Eight and a half.”

“Half?”

“I know who did it, but there’s no physical proof left. Six years tends to do that to evidence.”

At that point, John saw Mycroft walk through the door of the office.

“I take it you don’t want to be in there with us?”

“And see him again? No.”

“Okay.” John planted a light kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. It was something he’d done frequently since the conversation with Mycroft three days earlier. It helped him, John wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just the acceptance of who he was that made him feel secure.

*

There were no windows in the interview room. The light was artificial. It did nothing for the man sat in the hard plastic chair against the wall. He looked sallow, pale, but still there was a smug grin on his face, and John and Lestrade stood in front of him. As Mycroft stepped into the room, the smile widened.

“Mycroft, good to see you. Couldn’t tell these idiot to let me - ”

He was interrupted by a slap that snapped his whole head to the side. John gaped. He’d never seen Mycroft raise a finger, ever, but now here he was, slapping one of his oldest friends. Not without reason, of course.

When Mycroft spoke it was a growl.

“ _How dare you.”_

“What the bloody hell are you on about?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. He was about to say something when the door opened. Sherlock stood there, looked briefly at Mycroft, flicked his eyes over Lestrade and then stared intently at John, taking in his tense posture, no doubt knowing **exactly** what he wanted to do the cretin that sat in front of Mycroft.

Sherlock gave John a small, knowing smile, before glancing at Victor. His eyes went back to John.

“Oh…” Victor’s voice was small. He knew, John thought, just how much trouble he was in; if the British government comes to see you personally, you’re screwed.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice didn’t waver, but it wasn’t oozing confidence either.

“Yes?”

“Can I… Can you let John do what he’s thinking of doing?”

Mycroft eyes flicked over John before he smiled menacingly at Victor.

“Of course. Victor, stand up.”

Victor did so, frowning slightly. John stepped forward and, without further ado, kneed him as hard as he could between the legs. Victor crumpled. John turned to find Sherlock staring at him, smiling faintly.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, before stepping forward and pressing himself against John, who wrapped his arms around him.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we go home now?”

And with that (and one last good punch to Victor’s side), John allowed Sherlock to lead him out of the building.

*

**_10 YEARS LATER_ **

John woke up with an elbow in his side and curls tickling his nose. He pulled his head back and looked at the sleeping form of his husband, smiling to himself. As he propped himself up, he could also see the small form of their daughter, curled into the warmth of Sherlock’s belly. John felt his grin grow wider as he slipped out of bed and put the kettle on. It had just boiled, and John was pouring two teas to go with Abigail’s glass of milk, when there was a knock on the door. It was a familiar knock, and John swung to open the door to Mycroft and Greg. Newly married they were spending every moment outside of work together, much like he and Sherlock had.

“Tea?”

“I’d love a cup,” replied Greg.

Just then the door to the bedroom swung open and a small blurry eyed figured padded out, dragging the duvet with her. John heard a groan from within the bedroom and a tall, lanky figure followed.

“How can someone so small need so much blanket?” Sherlock was still half asleep a he wandered around in his pajamas, blinking in the light. He grunted a hello to Mycroft and Greg, before stooping to scoop Abigail up in his arms, chuckling mildly as a small hand hit him in the face.

John looked and smiled. Abigail was clearly going to be like Sherlock, with her shoulder length black hair, although it was straight, like John’s. Her eyes, piercingly blue, like Sherlock’s, already observed everything; she was known to simply start to laugh, after noting something strange about a passerby. John should have been embarrassed that his four year old was a better detective than him, but he wasn’t.

Once Abigail had finished trying to tear clumps of hair out of her father’s hair, and the four adults were sat around with their teas, Abby on the floor, drawing what appeared to be a replica of the solar system, Mycroft spoke.

“We just came by to let you know that Victor has asked for his sentence to be re-evaluated. I’m not sure whether you want to act on that, but if you wish, he will remain in prison.”

All eyes turned to Sherlock (except Abigail, who seemed focused on coloring the sun in neon pink). Sherlock shrugged.

“I don’t care. Let him out. You might as well.”

Mycroft nodded. “Are you sure you don’t want…?”

“This is what I want now.” Sherlock gestured to John and to Abigail. “I don’t care what you do with him, so long as he isn’t interfering with my life.”

John smiled, and lent over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock leaned into John, who wrapped his arms around him. It wasn’t long before Abigail scrambled up onto John’s lap, fighting for attention. She was instantly enveloped into a hug. They sat there for a while, as a family. After all, _this_ was what they wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me to the end :)
> 
> Hope you liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> Please leave a comment telling me what you think.


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